Watch Out for Dean
by Winchester and Winchester
Summary: He felt as if he was suffocating, like someone was choking him, or like he was breathing through a small straw. Dean grasped for something to hold onto, some way to maybe pull himself up and fight for air, but nothing was around. His eyes began to cross. A wave of heat rushed through him and sweat quickly formed on his brow - Dean has asthma. One shot.


**_This story was requested by the same person who asked for the 'Stanford' story. She has amazing ideas and I had so much fun writing this one! It actually took less than an hour to write in one sitting. Hope you enjoy!_**

* * *

Dean placed a hand over his bare chest, the rumbling beneath the surface concerning him more than it usually did. He inhaled slowly, cautiously, and the barely there rattle in his lungs filled his ears. No one else would probably notice it, in fact he had been relying on that for the past few weeks, but Sam was starting to worry when Dean would sit down more often than he used to.

He despised the weakness, the feeling of inadequacy when his father tossed him a questioning look after he too noticed Dean being winded after a short run. It had been happening for a while but Dean had pushed it away, having no interest in the condition's interest in him.

He pulled the t-shirt over his head and shrugged on the long sleeve shirt, looking into the bathroom mirror at his reflection. He still looked strong and agile but inside he felt tired.

"Dean, come on, we don't have all day," John said through the closed door, tapping on it twice. "You can primp your hair on the way." Sam's laughter drifted through and Dean rolled his eyes, his own lips curving slightly. John assumed, with an air of humor, that Dean had begun caring more about his appearance with his frequent trips to the bathroom. But in reality, it was where Dean went when he didn't want them to see him gasping for a deep breath or calming his burning lungs.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean replied as he grabbed his jacket from the toilet and pulled open the door. He stopped, tossing his head to one side and extending his arms. "I look great, don't I?"

On the edge of the bed, he saw Sam's eyes drift up quickly. John gave a smile. "You're my kid, it's your obligation."

Dean appreciated the lightness that was between the family the last few days. Sam and John hadn't fought and with Dean keeping his condition quiet, concerns were at an all time low. And Dean would do his best to keep things that way.

"Alright, let's go."

* * *

"Dean! Go around, you can catch it!" John and Sam raced inside the old house, the vampire leading them in as Dean followed his father's instructions and rounded the side, the long porch stretching the length of the front. He ran to the back, lungs already aching at the exertion, blade tightly in hand and angled for if the vamp came out the door.

But suddenly his grip on the knife loosened and it fell to the grass. Dean clutched his chest, air seeming to be in short supply. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on inhaling but the task proved more difficult than it ever should. Above the pounding in his ears, he heard a commotion inside the house and he stumbled away from the door to lean on the house, his back roughly hitting the brick siding as he fell against it.

Unable to support himself, Dean slid down until he was seated, uncomfortably, and gasped. His ears rang loudly and the pounding worsened as he began to panic, anger boiling in him. He knew that panicking would only make breathing harder but he couldn't stop himself.

He felt as if he was suffocating, like someone was choking him, or like he was breathing through a small straw. Dean grasped for something to hold onto, some way to maybe pull himself up and fight for air, but nothing was around. His eyes began to cross. A wave of heat rushed through him and sweat quickly formed on his brow.

Dean stopped himself from trying to inhale and held what little breath he had, counting to five in his head to slow his racing heartbeat. But he couldn't get to five. His mouth fell open and his chest burned as his lungs desperately searched for oxygen.

"Dean?" He could barely hear Sam's worried voice over the screaming in his ears. "Dean, what's wrong? Dean!"

Sam's hands were on him, pulling him forward by the jacket's lapels. A fist was on his back, pounding harshly, but trying to be gentle, and doing everything it could to get Dean to breath.

Dean heard himself groaning, the sound of his throat dryly begging for air.

"Help me lay him down!" Sam yelled at his father, the high pitch of his voice a sure sign of his own panic. Two sets of hands were on Dean and he felt himself being lowered but it felt slow. Very slow. As if he was in slow motion. The lack of oxygen was already messing with his head but he fought off the effects, vainly trying to keep himself awake.

Everything sounded as if they were underwater, Sam and John's voices garbled beyond recognition. There was some sensation, some feeling of compression on his chest, but Dean couldn't really feel it. It was distant.

Then, at last, his futile gasps began to find what they sought. He sucked in air, the edges of darkness around his blurred vision dissipating with each panted gulp. Slowly, painfully slowly, his lungs greedily pulled in oxygen, the breaths becoming more controlled and purposeful.

"Dean?" Sam repeated his brother's name over and over until Dean's eyes drifted open and toward him. As he got a bearing of his surroundings again, he found his head resting on Sam's legs while their father was on his knees nearby, a hand on Dean's chest. The concern in both of their eyes was unlike Dean had seen before. "Hey, man, you okay?"

Dena tried to speak but his lungs worked tirelessly to retrieve what it had lost, keeping him from expelling any useful air. So instead he nodded, the motion taking a lot of effort. The pounding and ringing he heard quieted and he instead heard rustling before a water bottle was held over him. "Can you drink, son?" John asked, the edge of his voice still holding worry. Dean nodded again.

Sam took the bottle and held it to Dean's lips. While his lungs resented him for holding his treasured breath to drink, Dean's throat welcomed the soothing relief over the rough and abused passage.

Neither his father or brother tried to rush Dean as he drank and rested, his exhausted body slowly finding its strength.

Finally Dean sat up, with Sam's help. "Easy, easy. Don't worry, there's no rush," Sam and John took turns saying as they helped him stand.

"T-the…" Dean could barely speak and the words that did come out sounded like they had been put through a shredder. "The vamp… it's… dead?"

"Yeah, don't worry about that," John said with a thin smile as he lifted Dean's left arm over his shoulder while Sam did the same with Dean's right. Dean didn't resist, he just wanted to get to the Impala, or better yet, to a bed. For one he didn't care about his ego or pride, he appreciated his family's help. His weak legs gave a few pointless attempts to carry his own weight but he quickly gave up.

"Alright, easy." Sam smoothly moved out from under Dean's arm to open the Impala's door and helped his brother slide in. Once he was in, Dean leaned his head against the seat and closed his eyes, physically exhausted beyond words. But his mind worked, churning thoughts of how close he'd been to dying. It wouldn't have taken more than a few minutes if Sam and their Dad hadn't come out.

He felt the two get into the front seats and the car rocked as they slammed their doors. The car came to life with a contented purr and they were soon moving.

"Sammy?" His voice still sounded awful.

"Yeah? You alright?"

"Yeah… stop lookin' at me."

Sam's breathed chuckle would have made Dean smile in return, if he'd had the energy. He could feel his brother staring at him from the front and he could almost see those worried puppy eyes of his. Somehow past the growing shame he felt when he thought about his helpless body laid out on the ground, he took comfort in Sam's immediate care and continuing concern.

"You doin' alright there, kiddo?" John asked, his voice aimed forward but the slight changes in volume occurred when he looked at the rear view mirror.

Dean's arms lay on the seat, unmoving, and his chest felt as if his insides had been scraped with a dull knife, but he could feel some strength returning. "Yeah, Dad," he replied hoarsely.

"Listen to me." John paused to inhale slowly. "I'm guessing that didn't just come out of no where, did it? I mean you've been feeling bad the last few weeks, right?" Dean didn't need to respond. "If you ever have something this happen again, you tell us right away. Do you know how this could have gone if you'd gone out alone somewhere? You would have died, Dean. Do you realize that?" As he spoke, concern made room for anger, understandably.

"Yes sir."

A quiet sigh. "Just… don't ever do that again. You ain't allowed to die, you understand me? Neither of you are. Not on my watch."

Dean pushed past the heavy lids guarding his sight and his eyes met Sam's, who was still turned in his seat. They exchanged a small smile and knowing nod. "Yeah. Right back at you," Dean replied.

The drive back to the motel seemed much longer than Dean remembered and he felt himself drifting to sleep, the sounds of Sam and John quietly discussing where they would go next along with the rumble of the car's motor filling his ears. But just before he slipped into the darkness, he heard John whisper, "Watch out for Dean, okay?"

Sam's reply was equally as quiet. "Yeah, Dad, you know I will."


End file.
